


sick and sicker and sickest

by opheliahyde



Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Bloodplay, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Knifeplay, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Sibling Incest, Trick or Treat: Trick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-08-11 12:50:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16475891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opheliahyde/pseuds/opheliahyde
Summary: Serial Killer AU:There was something wrong with Seth, ever since he woke up as Richie was spreading the lighter fluid and took his brother's hand. It keeps getting worse.





	sick and sicker and sickest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scorpiod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiod/gifts).



> Not exactly one of your prompts, but going off your likes, I felt you may enjoy this. Happy Halloween! 
> 
> Title taken from _Sharp Objects_ by Gillian Flynn.

There’s something wrong with him.

Seth isn’t sure there was ever a time he was right—not before the fire, or else he wouldn’t have said _do it_ and held his brother’s hand as they watched their old man go up in flames. Maybe when their mom was around, when he was too young to remember it, scar-free, not knowing yet how his father could hit, what it was like to feel his arm bone snap, or how hunger could feel like it was eating through him, gnawing on his insides as he curled in on himself. He was right before his father unmade him, took him apart and put him back twisted, wrong, like a jammed up gun that could be dangerous, end up shooting back when the trigger was pulled.

His father had learned that, at least.

Uncle Eddie tried to give him _the talk_ the other day, but he blew him off, not sure how to say that girls didn’t hold his interest like he supposes they would if he’d grown up different, would have grown out of cooties and grown into wanting to hold their hand, wanting to kiss them, but every time he tried, Richie got in his sightlines and he hadn’t wanted to look away.

Of course it was Richie, it was _always_ Richie.

Seth hasn’t known anything but Richie, born after, never living without him—Richie at his side, Richie sharing his room, Richie at his back, got his back, watching his back, Richie trying to minimize the damage, Richie getting in between, Richie putting him back together, pushing shoulders back and sewing up his skin.

Richie had tried to kill their father without him, for him, trying to spare him, protect him— _maybe_ , Seth thinks, _I should have let him_. He should have gone back to sleep when he felt Richie leave, turned back when Richie told him to.

Maybe then he wouldn’t think of holding his brother’s hand and kissing him like they do in the movies or on TV, maybe he wouldn’t watch him undress memorizing every inch of bared skin and wondering what it would feel like to touch it, hold Richie still and run his hands all over him until he knows him inside and out.

It feels like a lie running over his tongue, thinks he probably would always want to, even if he stayed asleep and waited for Richie to come and get him—can’t imagine not wanting him, can’t imagine a time when Richie wasn’t everything.

Kissing Richie hadn’t felt any different than anything he had ever done with him—it felt right, natural, and maybe that was the proof of it, proof that something went rotten inside him and left him infected, spoiling from the inside out. But their mouths fit together like they had been born to it, like Seth was born to be made to fit Richie like this, his mouth against his, lips slippery yet chapped, mouth tasting of off-brand soda and salty-sweet sugar candy when Richie opens up, gasping or trying to breathe, but Seth held on, licking inside his mouth just to steal a taste.

Richie shoved him back and Seth would have stumbled, tripped over his own feet had Richie not kept a hold of him, hands curled in his t-shirt. “We’re not supposed to do that,” he says, his breathing heavy, his chest rising and falling hard; he says with his mouth pink  and his flushed cheeks, his hair mussed from Seth’s hands.

It made him want to do it again, knowing what his brother looked like after someone had kissed him, knowing what his mouth could do to make Richie look like that.

“I love you, Richie,” Seth counters—it’s the only thing that matters, the only thing Seth can make sense of. He loves Richie, he loves his brother, the reason his heart feels like it’s going to break his ribs and bust out of his chest. “That’s what people do when they love each other, right? You love me, don’t you, brother?”

Richie comes back, comes closer, hands cradling Seth’s neck and Seth thinks if he tries hard enough, he can still smell the scent of lighter fluid on his brother’s skin.

Richie bows his head towards Seth, their foreheads connecting—Richie keeps his eyes closed, but Seth keeps looking, keeps watching, admiring the way Richie’s eyelashes fan out over the tops of his cheeks.

“You know I do.”

  
  
  
  
  


Seth can always tell when Richie is about to kill.

It’s not physical—the way it is with Seth, the way he feels hot under his skin that feels too tight until he snaps, busting loose. With Richie, it starts slow. Microaggressions on the street hooking him, triggering him, making him catch a scent so he’ll start digging until he has a name, an address, all he needs to start the hunt.

It’s not like Seth doesn’t know Richie’s type, what he goes for,  but he’d never say anything, never point out the pattern of white men in their mid-to-late 40’s with authoritarian streak, ones that drag their kids by the arm and tug them off to a corner, out of earshot, to dress them down, take them down a peg or two with harsh whispered words.

It’s not like Richie is doing anything wrong, not like Seth, at least these fuckers deserved it, deserved his brother ending their lives like an avenging angel, evening the score. But Seth knows they to be careful, tries to tell him to pick someone random, break pattern— _patterns are how you get fucking caught._

 _You need to stop killing dad over and over, in new and creative ways,_ Seth thinks.

Richie has gotten good with a computer, using the ones at the library to hack into databases— police records, hospital records. Richie’s got to be sure, got to know they’ve done something— usually they have, even if the cops hadn’t picked them up yet, if ever. Kids with too frequent ER visits, a history of battery and assault charges, it’s easy if you know the signs, but most slip through the cracks. Seth never figured out if it was incompetence or pure apathy.

Richie gets their work address next, follows them for weeks, casing them like he cases banks, with meticulous notes, knowing exactly when and where they’d be at any given time, knowing their habits. He knows this guy uses his lunch break to meet up with a woman who not his wife in a motel room five blocks from his work, that he stays too long on the company dime.

The lack of loyalty would make Seth sick, if he hadn’t already known he was a piece of shit.

Seth gets keyed up when Richie tells him when he’s gonna do it, starts packing rope, duct tape, his knives and doesn’t know how else to bring himself down except on his knees—Richie lets him suck him off, eases his nerves into Seth’s mouth, thrusting his cock down Seth’s throat. Richie pets Seth’s hair as he tells Seth how he’s gonna do it this time, his hips rocking while he goes over the plan with Seth’s mouth too full to interrupt him—he comes quick, both of them on edge already, comes telling Seth how he’s going to take this one apart, chunk by chunk; Richie always does it slow, takes his time with them, makes sure they know why they’re going to die.

Seth has to change his pants before they go, coming untouched, just thinking about it.

  
  
  
  
  


Richie curls his hand around Seth’s wrist, holds tight enough that Seth can feel his own pulse thudding against the pads of Richie’s fingers—the knife stays firm in his grip, palm dry, no longer slick like his hands used to get, sweating with nerves he’d shaken back. Seth trembles now at the sight of the blade against his brother’s pale skin, Richie drawing the tip under the edge of his ribcage.

“Be careful around this area—if you want to stab someone here, you have to be precise or else you could puncture a lung or hit too low and open up their stomach and they’ll die quicker than you want,” Richie loosens his grip, stroke his fingertips across the underside of Seth’s wrist, tilting his head towards Seth’s, holding his gaze—his breath, hot and a bit stale, exhaling across Seth’s mouth. “They’ll die before you can make them _hurt_.”

Seth slides out of his grip easy, like Richie let him go, like permission, his arm falling to the side, inhaling a shaky breath when Seth drags the blade of the knife up his sternum, tracing the tip along his collarbone, forgetting why they were doing this—practice, instruction, Richie teaching him where and how to cut. Richie should have taken his shirt off, used his own body as a dummy, a training aid. It was easy to get caught up, get lost, staring at his brother’s skin too long and wanting to touch, wanting to spill a little of his blood, make him gasp and whine, lose concentration, fall away from the task at hand.

“We want to make them hurt, don’t we, brother?” Seth says, trailing the knife down.

It’s Richie’s blade, his favorite one, strong steel and straight-edged, sharp, a blade with power—watching it rise and fall with Richie’s quickened breaths, stroking the tip over his nipple, soft, careful drags of the edge along the small peak, reddening as the nub gets harder, Richie strangling high-pitched noises in his throat, low whimpers escaping.

Seth rubs the flat of the blade across Richie’s other nipple, grinning when Richie shudders against him, shivers breaking out across his skin in goosepimples. “Yeah,” Richie chokes out. “We do.”

Richie gasps when he makes the first cut, dark red spilling up over pale pink, dripping down over his ribs from the line under his nipple—it makes Seth harder to look at, his underwear already damp and sticky, uncomfortable and tight, eyes falling to bulge at the front of Richie’s briefs, the faint hint of pink where the damp white cotton had gone translucent.

“Like this, Richie?” he asks, running his fingertips through his brother’s blood, bringing the blade to his mouth, tracing his tongue close to the edge and tasting the warm iron, the cool steel underneath.

“Too gentle,” Richie says. “I wouldn’t go so easy on them, I would go harder.”

The cut was deeper than he had meant, splitting Richie’s skin too far—not enough to be stitched up, but Seth can feel the slit he’d made in his brother’s chest when he digs his fingers into the wound. He likes feeling bloody mess he made, how hot Richie feels from the inside, watching the red rolling down over his stomach, staining the waistband of his briefs, and thinks how touching Richie like this must sting, noticing how it makes his jaw clench, hearing the rough groans escape his throat.

“Is this too gentle, brother?” he asks, pressing harder against the cut, raising the knife to rest against Richie’s throat, applying enough pressure to knick him, adding more of Richie’s blood to his own blade. “Hard enough for you?”

“Seth, _fuck_ ,” Richie breathes out with his eyes blown-black, wild around the edges, a worried furrow in his brow, but he whines and arches against Seth, arches into the blade when Seth shoves their hips together, grinding his cock against Richie’s through layers of cloth, breath hitching when Seth drags the knife higher, pressing under his chin, shivering whenever Richie’s adam’s apple knocks against the blade when he swallows. “Careful.”

He pushes Richie back, walking forward into the space Richie leaves behind when he stumbles but moves. “Get on the bed, brother,” he says, nudging Richie back until his calves hit the side. Richie lets himself fall back on the mattress, scooting up towards the head when Seth follows him down, climbing over his legs.

Seth stares down at Richie for a moment, looking at the wreck he’s made of his brother: skin turning pink, flushed across his chest, filling in his cheeks, lips swollen, the blood spilling and smeared across his skin, staining him in places in the shape of Seth’s handprints. He considers for a moment, licking him clean, lapping at his blood (their blood--same type, same parents, didn’t make much difference if it was Richie’s or his), but his hands go for his underwear, grabbing up the blade and slicing through the cotton and the elastic, peeling the torn fabric away from his body, leaving him exposed, cock jutting up from his hips.

“Fuck,” Richie moans, hips snapping up against the empty air, “ _fuck_ ,” he whimpers when Seth brings the flat of his knife to the shaft of his cock, watching Richie cock twitch when he begins to stroke him with the blade, how Richie begins to spill at the tip.

“Think I could make you come like this?” Seth asks, running his fingers between Richie’s thighs, nudging fingers against him, stroking around loosened ring of muscles and pushing inside Richie, stroking him from the inside as he drags the edge of the blade up the underside of Richie’s cock, feeling his own cock throb when Richie thrusts up against the knife and down against his fingers, like he can’t decide which sensation he wanted more. “Make you come all over your knife.”

Richie groans, shuddering as Seth drags the blade lower, tracing the tip over his scrotum, dipping in between his cheeks. “Please,” Richie gasps out, all he can get out with his throat looking that tense, not answering the question, but Seth didn’t need him to.

Seth pulls up, lets up, opening his jeans and shoving them down his thighs with his underwear, lets the clothing bunch around his knees.

Spit is all Seth has time for, filling his hand and wrapping it around his cock, stroking up and down, slicking himself up with saliva—it’ll hurt, burn, but Seth likes the idea, climbing over Richie until he has the knife against his throat, high under his chin. “Spread your legs or I’ll slit your goddamn throat,” he says, voice too breathy to be threatening, trembling and wondering if Richie will buck him off, not liking his game.

Richie complies, opening his thighs until Seth settles between them, his hips fitting between Richie’s legs as he breeches him, thrusting in hard and quick. “Fuck,” he moans, panting out as he rocks his hips, shoving in deeper, despite the resistance, liking the friction. “That’s good, you’re so good,” he whispers, looking into Richie’s eyes, blown wide and filled with want, arching up to press into the knife, a trickle of blood dripping down to Richie’s collarbone. “I am gonna fuck you and come inside you, sweetheart.”

It doesn’t take long, thrusting in and out of Richie’s willing body, knife at his neck, both of them pretending Seth was forcing him when they both wanted this, a new way to push their limits, to get off. Richie comes first, spilling out over his stomach, warm and sticky, his releasing squishing between their bodies as Seth works himself to his orgasm, never letting go of the knife.

  
  
  
  
  


Seth’s kills are random, impulsive— _sloppy_ , as Richie sometimes calls them, but Seth always cleans up his messes, gets rid of the bodies and washes away the blood; _no need to worry yourself, brother_ , he whispers into Richie’s mouth, smearing his latest kill’s blow over his cheeks as he cups his face, _I know how to handle myself._

It’s a sweet lie, they both know that.

Seth boils under the surface, always a slow simmer until he explodes. He still has enough sense not to do it in public, but sometimes he loses all reason.

He is still spoiling for a fight, even after Richie has him sitting down at their kitchen table, working on cleaning him up—his shoulders raised and tense under Richie’s hand, breathing shallow and quick, his eyes flashing around the room, looking for something to hit with his clenched fists.

 _Calm down_ , Richie whispers, touching Seth, stroking his skin, but he feels keyed up, edgy and shaking, his stomach knotted up under his ribs when he thinks about it, tries to keep his breathing steady and his heart under control as his face heats up, thinking about those guys, two-on-one, yet he had knocked them both down.

 _You nearly tore them apart with your bare hands, beat them to death_ , Richie had breathed in his ear, hustling him away from the scene, the pair of still bodies on the pavement—he had said it with awe, reverently, thick in his throat, couldn’t swallow it down, like he couldn’t help it.

Seth wishes sometimes Richie would just give in, kiss his bruised knuckles and lick the blood off his hands.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he says, washing the blood from Seth’s temple, dragging the washcloth along his hairline. “What did we agree about scenes?”

“They disrespected you.”

Richie shudders, Seth watches the way it goes through him, setting off the shakes. “No one gets to disrespect you like that,” Seth says again, makes sure his voice is heavy with meaning, eyes on Richie’s, telling Richie I’d do it again, I’d do it worse, I’d kill anyone you asked me to, anyone for you.

Seth can feel Richie’s cock this close, thickening in his ruined khakis, torn and bloody from the fray, and he can’t help but reach down and cup him, squeezing him in his palm. Richie takes his hands off Seth then, quick like he’d been burned.

His rage snarls up, sudden and hot, blotting out all thought as he pounces, launches himself at Richie, knocking the first aid kit to the floor as he gets Richie underneath him, hovering over him with loose grin and feral eyes, bleeding from the mouth—the tension in his limbs wired tight, hands bruising on Richie’s shoulders as he leans in close.

“Gonna kill me too, brother?” Richie asks.

Seth’s not sure why, but they’re both not sure what Seth’s hands are even capable of anymore, what he is willing to do with them, but Richie arches into them, tipping his head back—Richie is so easy, baring his throat for Seth.

Seth goes for his mouth, kissing him like he’d like to devour him whole, mouth open and his tongue sliding in deep, teeth on his lips—he tastes of iron, his own blood coating Richie’s tongue.

“I think you’d rather I fucked you,” he pants against Richie’s lips, his hands moving down Richie’s torso, making Richie’s hips jump when he gets a hand around his cock. “You’re all sticky, brother.” Seth grips Richie hard, dragging his hand down the shaft, and up again, thumbs pressing up under the head of his cock, leaning in and licking at Richie’s lips as he whimpers and moans, can’t bite it back when Seth jerks him like this—hard and rough. “How long have you been like this?”   

“Since the fight,” Richie whimpers, rolling under him. “Since we nabbed that guy.”

Seth laughs into Richie’s mouth, a livewire thrill buzzing through him. “We still have him, remember?” Seth says, running his hand over the back of Richie’s head.

(they went back, later, changing their minds, Seth killing the one who hadn’t put his hands on Richie, exhibiting a streak of mercy as he let his blade glide over his throat, slicing it open, letting him bleed out in the alleyway—the other one, Richie had tied up, sweetly gift wrapped him for Seth, decked out in his intricate knots, where he has stayed as they threw him in the trunk, then brought him inside)

Richie moans, deep in his throat, the sound delicious and making Seth’s cock pulsate with desire.

Seth loved to play with his kills, he loved letting Richie watch. Just another game they play.

  
  
  
  
  


It hadn’t always felt like this, Seth remembers.

The first time was their father and they were both trembling, gripping each other hard with sweaty hands and interlaced fingers, holding on as the fire was set and the flames exploded into life. The couch had caught fire quicker than he had anticipated, free hand raising up on instinct to protect his face as the heat grew hotter. Richie had to tug him away, hugging him tight out on the patch of grass across the street from the apartment, both their hearts like jackrabbits in cages, panting into each other’s necks, breathing free air for the first time.

But he doesn’t remember when it started—sometime after Richie’s growth spurt and Seth’s voice deepened, both of them losing control of their dicks, getting hard at the slightest brush, a fleeting thought. Seth taught Richie how to make himself come, hands folded together around Richie’s cock and jacking him off together until their fingers got wet and sticky; Richie collapsed underneath him as Seth licked away his taste.

This was different.

This was Seth’s gut going hot at the sight of blood, Richie’s knife stained with it as he opens up some shithead, sternum to bellybutton. This was Seth feeling his cock grow heavy and thicken while Richie takes him apart, some fucker who looks like dad, who was diddling his own kids—pressing up with the heel off his palm and breaking his nose, letting the blood pour down, then snapping his fingers back, one at a time.

Richie tortures him slow, leaving him a broken, mangled mess while all Seth could think about was grabbing Richie and shoving their mouths together, taking him down to the floor and letting him watch as they rut against each other on the floor, Richie getting his blood all over Seth, painting him with the evidence as Seth comes over his stomach.

They fuck again after, adrenaline high from the kill, the body stuffed in various garbage bags, deposited in dumpster all over the city.

Richie jumped on him once they got back to the apartment, ravaging his mouth as he tore at his clothes, ripping the stained and grimy cloth until he got at his skin, naked underneath him on the floor.

Richie held his eyes, dark and huge behind his glasses as he lowered himself onto Seth’s throbbing cock, slick enough that Richie went easy, pain numbed by the chemicals coursing through his veins, firing in his head as Seth watches him fuck himself down onto him, digs his nails into his thighs as Richie pins him with his hands pressed to his chest, using him as leverage to propel himself upwards, then dropping back down, his cock red and hard, bobbing with every thrust against Seth’s stomach.

Fucking beautiful.

  
  
  
  
  


Seth spread Richie out across the width of the bed, side to side, rather than head to foot, stripped him and arranged him, on display, bare skin against the comforter and legs spread for Seth work worm his way between, cock jutting up above his stomach despite the flush growing from his cheeks down across his chest.

Richie keeps his gaze locked on Seth, looking up at him with dark eyes half-lidded, softened by the fringe of his lashes. Seth rests between Richie’s splayed thighs, hunched over his cock as his tongue dances over the head, quick swirling licks that tease, not giving Richie the heat of his mouth just yet.  
  
Seth watches Richie bite down on hit bottom lip, his hips jerking up, thrusting into Seth’s warm, wet mouth, keeping his eyes forward, never letting them stray to the side.  
  
Seth lets off, mouth pulled away as he reaches for Richie’s chin—he tugs with his fingers on Richie’s bottom lip until his mouth falls open. “That’s it,” Seth says, stroking Richie’s lip with his fingertip, running them inside his mouth, pressing down on Richie’s tongue. “Keep it open. I want to hear you.” Seth cocks his head to the side, turning back to Richie with a grin stretching his mouth open, teeth bared. “Our guest wants to hear you.  
  
Richie nods, Seth liking the way he complies, the way he shudders when Seth pulls his fingers from his mouth and trails them wetly down the side of his neck and over his chest. He draws a moan from the depths of Richie’s throat when he drags them over a nipple, rubbing and pinching, he breathing over his cock. “That’s what I want to hear, brother.” Seth licks up the underside of his cock, flicks his tongue through the wetness pooling at the tip of Richie’s cock. “Want to hear how much you love it when your baby brother sucks your cock.”  
  
Richie sucks in a deep breath and lets his head fall to the side, Seth knows he locks eyes with the guy at the bar he had dragged home with them with the promise of something more, bound and gagged to one of their kitchen chairs for buying Richie a drink and having the presumption he would get to touch him. He is bleeding already from the cuts Seth couldn’t help giving him, bruising around the jaw where Seth had rough him up.

It’s his gaze Richie holds when Seth finally, finally swallows him down, groaning when Richie thrusts up into his mouth. Seth grabs onto his hips, pins them back down to the bed, working hims mouth over him, hot and wet, throat tight around his cock. Richie listens and lets Seth hear him, groaning low and softening on a whine as his hands twist in the comforter.

Seth guts the guy with the taste of his brother’s come in his mouth, his hands digging into his guts as he leans in close, whispering in his ear as he fades, his entrails falling into his lap. “I hope you enjoyed the show, that’s as close as you were ever going to get to touching my brother.”

  
  
  
  
  


“Come here, brother,” Richie says, edged voice low and dangerous, words a threat and a command, grabbing Seth’s face between his hands, forcing his head up, dragging his eyes to Richie’s. “ _Look_ at me.”

Seth’s eyes fix on his, Richie looking at him with a dark gaze, pupils dilated, making Seth shudder and tremble. He pants against Richie’s mouth as he leans in, pressing himself against Richie’s hands, tension leaving his body as he becomes loose and fluid, malleable—all for Richie, giving himself over as the fight goes out of him, the sharp spiking anger that burns anyone it touches extinguished as his knees bend.

Richie tugs him back into bed, rolling Seth underneath him as his thighs part, legs lifting until Richie fits against him, their cocks hard and pressed between their stomachs, pressed together.

Richie never knows what he wants after—Seth knows it depends on the kill, depends on how much he gave away and how much it took.

This kill shouldn’t have been too hard—guy bound up and gagged, watching as Seth took Richie apart for show first, using his hands, tongue, and cock, fucking into Richie fast and hard, making him moan for it, making him beg for it, leaving Richie a mess with Seth’s come dripping down his thighs as he moved on towards the main event.

But the gag slipped from the guy’s mouth, allowing him to run it, reckless and stupid all in one breath, dragging Richie’s name into it.

Seth turned on him with a fury, breaking bones with his fists, pummeling him into a bruised and bloody mass before he even turned for Richie’s knife, wielding it with a vicious ferocity that got Richie’s engine going again, cock hardening and thickening as he watched Seth work, watched him rend the guy to pieces, until he wasn’t recognizable as human when he finished, just parts and pieces, blood mush of guts and brains and shattered bone.

Seth’s hands are sticky and wet, smearing blood and remains down Richie’s back, dipping low and grabbing his ass, yanking Richie’s hips against his, legs sliding up and open, and Richie knows what he wants.

“Want me to fuck you, brother?” he asks, running his hands over his blood splattered face, thumb tracing his bottom lip, Seth’s tongue flicking out to taste the rough pad. “Need my cock inside you, huh, baby?” Richie rolls his hips back to get his cock lined up.

Seth isn’t prepped but loose enough from earlier, when Richie fucked him in the bathroom stall after they picked out his target, Seth groaning out what he was going to do to him for Richie.

His cock head nudges in easy. “Gonna make you feel so full, complete. You and me, right?”

Seth nods. “You and me, brother. Just you and me. Forever.”

Seth moans, breath hitching as he rocks his hips, bearing down on Richie’s cock until Richie snaps his hips and slides all the way home, thrusting deep inside Seth quick and hard. Seth gasping out a harsh _fuck_ , his nails digging into Richie’s ass, gonna leave a mark, bruised and broken skin, it makes Richie laugh, low and breathy, licking Seth’s lips wild and unabashed, letting their foreheads fall together.

  
  
  
  
  


Richie holds him sometimes, just fucking holds him— _in the aftermath of a kill, after a job, right before they fall asleep_ —breathing out across his neck.

“Do you ever regret it?” he asks; they both know what he means.

Seth turns in his arms, meeting his eyes, his fingers tracing the shape of his face. “Never.”


End file.
